Albion
by Maudlin Matryoshka
Summary: In the early Middle Ages, a newborn England journeys to find out who and what he is, to find a land to call home, and to change the course of history. No ships.
1. Chapter 1

"Come quickly! In the storm, a young one was caught out in the field-"

A woman gasps in horror, and starts to run after her kinswoman, abandoning her pot by the fire. "Is he injured?"

"I don't know! Come, faster!"

Out in the fields, just beyond their tiny encampment, the men left to guard the camp are clustered around a burnt patch of land. Heeding the cries of other women, the mothers of the camp are rushing in from every direction. The newcomers push their way in to the huddled crowd for a closer view. In the middle of a scorched patch of grass lies a little boy, his eyes closed as if sleeping, blonde hair splayed around his face, and hands folded neatly on his chest. He is completely naked, with no signs of burns or any other injuries.

"Has anyone touched him?" a woman demands.

"No," one of them men answers. "We thought he might be..."

The woman kneels, and presses her fingers below the boy's jaw. "His heart beats!"

Astonished murmurs break out in the crowd. The woman places a large, calloused hand on the boy's chest, and presses. It rises in response, and the boy begins to breathe.

"Whose is he?" one of the crowd asks. "I've never seen him before."

"Not mine!"

"Nor mine!"

"Hush!" The woman gingerly lifts the boy onto her lap and holds him upright to ease his breathing. "Can't someone get anything for the poor boy to wear?" A small green cloak is passed forward, and the woman wraps it around him. The rough cloth against his skin makes him flinch.

"He's waking up!" The boy shifts, then stops, as if surprised by the movement. Slowly, he opens two brilliant green eyes, and looks around him in wonder. He stretches his hands out in front of him, opening one and closing the other. The movement delights him and he laughs, then starts when he hears his voice.

"Child," the woman says gently, "are you injured?"

His head snaps up in a jerky motion, and he stares at the woman. "No."

Nervous faces relax into smiles. "Thank the gods." The boy studies the people around him intently. He takes in their rough, travel-worn clothing and dirty skin, the matted hair and tired eyes, and wonders at how familiar they are to him, even as he feels so _new._

"What is your name, child?"

The boy frowns. "I don't know. Who am I?" A moment of panic flits across his features-all these people have names and histories and stories, and he is as blank as the hard, burnt ground beneath his feet. He knows the faces before him better than his own, and more-there are men hunting in a forest nearby, children playing around the great campfire, and elders sleeping in the makeshift tents. These are his people, and in these first moments of his existence, they are all he knows. Clueless faces meet his question in silence.

"We don't know either, child."

He tries again. "Where am I?"

"You are with the people of Angeln. We are travelers here."

He wriggles in the woman's lap, and she sets him down on the ground. He scrambles to his feet and trembles, feeling the cool after-storm breezes whip around his legs and hearing the the last of the dark clouds' thunder rolling overhead. The barren expanse of land they stand on, stark and unforgiving, sprawls endlessly before him. He reaches inside himself and tries to feel the same connection to the land as he did to his people, but he is met only with a sense of overwhelming, cold rejection. Suddenly lonesome and a bit frightened, the boy retreats back into the woman's arms.

"Child?"

"I'm all right, Alodia," he says, gripping fistfuls of her cloak, trying to shake the sudden desolation that had risen up inside him.

She stares at him in shock. "How did you know my name?"

"I don't know."

* * *

Alodia brings the boy home with her, and announces to the camp that he will be staying with them, at least for the time being. With no memory of parents or people, land or home, only the insistence that he belongs with them, there is nothing else she can do. The rumors around the camp—that he was delivered in the bolt of lightning that struck the field, that he is invulnerable to the burns that should have fried his small body, that he is a faerie child—make the people wary of accepting him as one of their own, but with a stern look, she silences anxious looks. No one questions the cheif's wife.

In the days that follow, she tries various names for the boy—Beorn for warrior, Firman for traveler, Gareth for strong spear. Each he appreciates and rejects. He wants a name that belongs to him—him, and him only. He should recognize and belong to his name, just as he recognizes and belongs to the Angles, and they to him. So he has no name, just travels onward, feeling the footsteps of his people pounding in his head and the weariness in his legs as they walk due west for miles every day. As he walks, he learns more about himself and the world around him. He is not loud and rambunctious like the other children. He sits quietly, speaks thoughtfully, and carries himself with the dignity of a man. He quickly learns that people are not the only creatures, and has long conversations with field mice and rabbits. They tell him stories of ancient days, when the world was first beginning, and he thanks them for their knowledge. Once he tries to speak with a fox, but when it comes out of the forest to greet him, Alodia sees it and screams, snatching him up and running back to the camp.

"Don't get near the wild animals," she scolds.

"I wanted to ask him a question," the boy replies seriously.

She stares at him for a moment, thrown by how patient he looks, as if she was being unreasonable. "You have a wonderful imagination, don't you..." she says finally, and turns away. After that, the boy is more careful about speaking to his friends.

When the sun falls, the Angles rest, propping up tents made of furs and crudely-spun cloth. The women prepare meat and herbs from the land around them, and he is fed generously. Alodia insists that he sleep in her tent, but when she and the chief have fallen asleep, he sneaks outside to stare up at the stars and marvel at the world around him. Sometimes, he thinks he can see small flashes of light from the corners of his eyes—bigger than fireflies, and closer than shooting stars—but when he turns, they always disappear.

"Those?" a badger says one night, "Those are the fairies. You mean you can't see them?"

"No," the boy replies miserably. "I wish I could."

"To see fairies, one has to be magical," the badger states firmly. "Like me."

The boy leans forward intently. "How can I become magical and see the fairies?"

The badger snorts. "That secret is so old even I don't know it. You'll have to find out for yourself."

* * *

Around the campfire the next night, the normally silent boy asks a question.

"Where are we going?" The why was obvious: the Angles did not belong here. They were strangers on this land. Many times the boy had tried—had sought—a connection, a sense of belonging to the land they traveled on, only to feel the same cold, impersonal rejection he had felt on the day of his birth. Each time, a deep longing rose within him to find a place that would accept him as its own and erase the desolation that bubbled up inside him. Everyone looks at him in surprise, but the chief answers calmly.

"We go to the land of Albion, to join the rest of our tribe."

_Albion. _The boy whispers it to himself, and is delighted by how gracefully the name falls from his lips. "What is in Albion for the Angles? Why did we leave Angeln?"

"Years ago, many warriors came to us, calling themselves Britons, from the isle of Brittanica, which in our legend is called Albion. They had been sent by a great King in that land by the name of Vortigern to ask for our help in defending his kingdom from their enemies, the Picts. In return, Vortigern promised us that the Angles would have new land, enough for the whole tribe to thrive. I agreed, for you see, boy, once a people stay too long on one land, the soil is used up, and the forests yield no more sustenance. I could see that Anglyn was becoming tired, and it would soon be time for our people to find a new home. I sent my brother, Horsa, ahead with half of the warrior of Anglyn to help him, with the promise that the rest would follow as soon as we were able. I have confidence in Horsa's abilities: the Picts will be vanquished by the time we reach Albion's shores. We will arrive in peace, Albion will be our home, and there will be land to last us forever."

_Home. _The boy nods fervently, smiling to himself. Later that night, after the Angles have gone to bed, he stays awake, staring up at the stars and whispering the name of his future home again and again. _Albion. Albion. Albion. _His eyes cloud as his heart overflows in wonder, and he cries in happiness. _I will find my land. I'm going home._

* * *

**A/N:** I have tried my best to make this historically accurate, but for those who were confused, here is a little background.

In the time of the Roman Empire, the Romans conquered the southern half of the island of what we today call "Great Britain." The native people who lived there were a Celtic people called the Britons, and the Romans named their land Brittannia. The Romans occupied Brittania, often with the help of Germanic mercenaries, until the fall of the Roman Empire. After that, Brittannia was invaded over a few hundred years period by Germanic tribes, and the Britons were slowly either assimilated into the invaders' tribes or kicked out of Brittannia. One of the more prominent tribes was the "Anglo-Saxons," made up of two tribes-the Angles and the Saxons. The Angles came from an area called Angeln, which is now modern-day northern Germany, and could have gone as far up as Denmark. The Saxons came from Saxony, which is in northwestern Germany. Once these two tribes came together, they created the people we now think of as traditionally British, and were the people that were conquered by William the Conqueror (a man from a region of France called Normandy) in 1066. Once the Normans brought by the conquest started to mix with the Anglo-Saxons, the English language moved from "Old English" (basically a dialect of old German) into Middle English, which is closer to modern English.

So basically...the "British" people...didn't start on the island of Great Britain at all. They _came_there. This thought blew my mind, and thus this fic was born.

A note about Albion: In the history above, I referred to the island of Great Britain as Brittannia because that's what the Romans called it. Another name for the island was Albion, which is also the oldest known name of the island. It could have come from_ "alb"_ meaning _white_because of the white Cliffs of Dover that are visible across the channel on mainland Europe.

Also, all names used are real Anglo-Saxon names.

Sources: A lot of Wikipedia, history class, and my father's extensive history knowledge. Please let me know if I got anything wrong, and R&R!

* * *

Later Note: I have updated this chapter since it was first published due to historical inaccuracies. I'm sorry for any confusion this has caused.

Vortigern is a mysterious historical character, thought to be an early king of the Britons (native Celtic inhabitants of the island of Great Britain). The following story, his interaction with Hengest (the chief) and his brother Horsa, are described in early Anglo-Saxon historical texts, though I do put the disclaimer out there that I did not follow every detail to the letter. If you want the full, real story, I encourage you to read up about post-Roman Europe! It's fun, I promise!


	2. Chapter 2

After weeks of travel south-west, the climate starts to change. The land slopes gradually downward, and the morning breezes carry a sharp scent that burns pleasurably down the boy's throat. From on top of the chief's shoulders, he takes in huge lungfulls and sighs contentedly.

"You like that, do you, boy?" the chief rumbles through his beard, "That's the salty sea you're smelling. We'll be nearing the coast any day now."

"Will we sail to Albion?"

"Not yet. The sea here is too wide and deep for our boats. We'll be heading south for a time, and cross when we see the White Cliffs."

"What is a cliff?"

The chief growls a laugh. "You'll see soon enough."

* * *

Later that afternoon, the Angles' procession is halted by the distant sight of men on horseback. The chief sends runners forward to scout, and they come back with grim expressions.

"The soldiers wear plumed helmets," one reports, "and carry spears. They protect another, with a circle of gold on his head, and a boy behind him."

The chief frowns. "I thought as much. Romans. We will meet them ahead."

The riders have already seen the worried Angles clustered together and approach slowly. Once they are within range of the Angles' archers, they pointedly sheathe their spears.

These riders are unlike anyone the boy has seen. The soldiers wear metal armor over short, colorful tunics, and their legs are bound in criss-crossed ribbon as well. Their cloaks are pure white with blue borders, and short, falling only to their waists and blowing impressively in the breeze. The man in the middle, who holds himself with an air of pompous regality, and is dressed even more elaborately than the soldiers, with golden jewelry and woven gold borders on the edges of his clothing. The boy clinging to his cloak behind him is dressed just as finely, and peers out from behind the excess fabric with a condescending expression.

The company's most surprising feature, however, is their hair. It falls past their shoulders as a long silky wave in a style that previously the boy has only seen on women. But the steely look in their eyes is far from the gentle strength he is accustomed to from the women's gazes.

"Greetings, travelers," the soldier in front addresses the group. His voice is rough, but his words have a softness unlike those of the Angles.

"Greetings, roman soldiers," the chief responds slowly, as if sounding out each word. "We are indeed travelers in these lands. Have we crossed a boundary?"

Some of the Angles glance in confusion at the chief, and whisper among themselves.

The soldier's lips lift in a sneer. "We are not roman, wanderer. The romans have fled this land with our spears at their backs. We are Franks, and this is our land."

The chief pauses, reassessing the situation. "We are traveling to the coast near the White Cliffs. It would be a great boon to us if you would grant us safe passage."

The soldiers look to the man in the middle for an answer. He considers for a long moment, looking down at the Angles from his perch. It occurs to the boy how rough and worn they must look to this fancy king and his polished soldiers.

"And why should I do that?" the King finally asks in a drawl. "What can you offer me in return?"

The boy behind the king tugs on his sleeve. "Him," the boy says in a high voice. "Ask for him."

The king turns. "Who?"

"That boy," he says, and points at the boy. "With the funny eyebrows."

The king turns back to the Angles and stares at the boy, a greedy smile starting.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," the boy behind him says, sounding bored. "I know he doesn't _look_ like one of us, but it's hard to tell with that much dirt on his face." His lips curl into a taunting smirk.

The boy glares in return, and realizes that he hates that look, the one all these people are wearing, a look of contempt and superiority. They had no right to feel so high and mighty just because of a little dirt! Especially that boy. There was something in the way he tossed his golden hair, something in his blue eyes that infuriated him.

"I won't go with you!" he yells out, stepping out from behind the chief. The Angles freeze behind him in amazement. The boy looks up at the chief, expecting to be scolded for talking out of place, but the chief has the same look of confusion that the rest of the tribe wears.

"How could you understand what they were saying?" he whispers. "They were speaking Latin..."

The moment is broken by a loud guffaw from the Frankish king. "Oh, this is too good. They don't even know what he is!"

The chief shoots the boy another look, trying to decipher the King's words. The boy only looks helplessly back.

The king commands their attention again. "No. No, I don't think I will grant you passage through our land. You have something we want, and he doesn't seem to be very cooperative. That is, unless, you have other plans?"

The chief quickly glances down to the boy, and frowns. "No. This boy is...is ours," he says, placing a hand on his head.

The king's sneering smile turns vicious. "Not for long. Prepare yourselves, wanderers!" He draws a bugle from the folds of his cloak and sounds a long, low note. In the distance, an answering call is winded, accompanied by the distant rumble of horse hooves.

The chief turns back to the tribe. "Warriors, stay. The Franks have chosen to fight. Women, children, go. Get away from here. We will join you once we've won." He smiles tightly, then picks up the boy and places him in Alodia's arms. "Take care of this one."

Alodia nods, and holds the boy on her hip while barking instructions to the women. The chief draws his sword and yells a battle cry, firing up the warriors. As the women retreat, the boy looks over Alodia's shoulder to see the King lean in to one of his soldiers and whisper something in his ear, pointing at the boy.

* * *

Alodia barely makes it to the woods before the Frankish soldiers are at their heels. She tries to out-manuver them by ducking under branches and weaving between trees, but their raw strength powers them to crash through the bushes. As one soldier makes a grab for her, she yells and shoves his hand away. Pouring on the speed, she manages to duck into a small clearing, and dumps the terrified boy off her hip.

"You need to run! Go, we'll find you later!"

She tries to push him away, but he clings to her hand.

"Come with me!"

"No time!" The Frank's loud guffaws surround the clearing as they close in on their prey. "Go!"

With a startled cry, he stumbles away from her and very nearly into one of the Frankish soldiers. The man makes a clumsy grab for him, but he ducks between his legs and lurches away, running before he has his balance and leaving a piteous wail in his wake. He goes faster than he thought possible, careening between trees and sinkholes, only thinking of staying on his feet. After a minute, he feels a rustling in the forest debris next to him, keeping pace with him. It soon expands, becomes a whole colony of racing creatures. When he can no longer hear the Franks, his legs give out in exhaustion and he collapses, panting heavily. Immediately, all around him are tiny, furry faces nudging him with cool, wet noses. Rabbits.

"Come on," they chorus, "just a little farther!"

They prod his legs, and he wearily stands. A few of the rabbits go ahead of him, showing him the way. He totters after them, occasionally stopping to lean against a tree. Each time, the rabbits surround his feet and ankles, trying to warm them and give him strength to go on. Eventually, the forest thins, and he is led to a small, sandy hole, the entrance to the rabbits' burrow. He gets on his knees to examine it, and bursts into tears.

"I'm too big to fit!"

The rabbits look at each other, conferring quietly. A few climb into his lap and butt their noses against him, attempting comfort. His cries slow into a slow, steady, grieved trickle.

"Don't despair," they whisper. "We'll help. You'll see."

A few young rabbits duck into the burrow, and come back a few minutes later with the largest rabbit the boy has ever seen. It might have had groundhog blood, but the other rabbits paid it the utmost respect, crouching in a feral bow. The large rabbit regarded the boy severely.

"You must never speak of what has taken place here. Do you understand?"

"Please," the boy sniffles, "understand what?"

The rabbit stares at him in complete concentration. As he stares, he seems to become larger, or perhaps the boy smaller. He suddenly feels warm, almost too warm, his lungs compress, and his heart begins to beat very quickly. When he looks around, the earth suddenly has gone very flat, as if on a weaver's tapestry landscape. He would think that he was in a completely planar world if not for the smells that suddenly sharpen and intensify and lead off in trails. The rabbits around him watch him intently, and he notices that he is the same size as the rabbits.

"What happened?" he asks no one in particular.

They circle and brush by him, nudging his sides and cheeks with their own, leaving their scents and comfort with him. Involuntarily, his ears twitch, but they move above his eyes...

He understands. They have turned him into a rabbit.

* * *

The burrow is a complex maze of dry, dusty passages that sometimes widen into caverns or drop into pits. There is only enough room for one or two abrest, so he obediently follows the rabbit in front of him until he is dizzy from the curvaceous tunnels. Eventually, they pop out into a long hall, and cluster around for a conference. The boy timidly approaches the large rabbit, and touches his nose to the ground.

"Thank you for saving me."

The large rabbit stares at him, waiting. "Do you wish to return to your people?"

"Yes! Oh, yes please. I have to get home—" The boy is silenced by a gentle nudge.

"Then we will help you. You will stay with us for the night, and at dawn we shall return you to the world of men."

The rabbits bed down where they are, using each other's flanks as pillows and scooting together for warmth. Sandwiched between two large rabbits, the boy tries to calm his racing thoughts. Images flash through his mind—the Angle warriors hefting spears, the Franks surrounding them on horseback, the chief being forced to relinquish his sword to the Frankish king, the Angle women being rounded up. The blonde boy is nowhere to be seen. He senses a tightening in his chest, and understands that his people have been imprisoned. He sees a woman mourning over the still body of her husband. This is the first death he has experienced, and it leaves him with a vague, empty feeling.

These people are a part of him, are him entirely, and he knows their experiences and feels their troubles with his own body and heart.

He has no idea why.

* * *

At dawn, the rabbits rouse. Without speaking, they again race through the tunnels, ending up on the surface. As the boy reaches the surface, he shudders, and is abruptly human again, kneeling on the ground. He stretches his arms

in wonder. When he stretches, however, something moves with him. He reaches up, and finds that a long, floppy pair of rabbit-like ears has grown from his head and now drops softly down to his shoulders.

"Our gift to you, for your protection," the large rabbit tells him solemnly.

His eyes fill with tears. "Thank you. Thank you always."

The rabbits nudge his feet in the direction of the Frankish camp. He follows their directions eagerly.

* * *

The Angles are not there.

Try as he might, reaching deep down inside himself, the boy can not find them. They are near, he is sure, but he can not see them. Another few minutes sneaking around reveals no more than the first time. In frustration, the boy kicks  
a pebble and sits on a log to think.

The Angles are near, but not somewhere he can find. Who can he ask for help? He is in the middle of enemy territory, and could be overpowered quickly by  
any of the soldiers once they wake.

All except...one.

He fishes around in his cloak for the tiny dagger the chief had made for him only a few days ago. He has taken to it well, but has only used it for whittling so far.

It will have to do.

He creeps towards the tallest tent, with blue and gold borders. Royal. The guards, sleepy in the early morning, lounge outside, eyes half open, not expecting trouble. He sneaks up to the tent from the side, and lifts a corner to duck in, knife held out  
in front. It is dark and musty inside, and he holds his breath to listen. The only noise is the Frankish king, sprawled on a giant bed of furs and cloth, snoring. There is no one else. Disappointed, he ducks back out of the tent.

Where is the boy from yesterday?

The funny, golden haired boy that had ridden behind the king, that had lazily demanded him as tribute, and had mocked him for his wild appearance. The boy with the bluest eyes he had ever seen, and the most infuriating smirk. The thought of jabbing him with his tiny knife makes him perversely satisfied.

And he _would_ tell the boy where the Angles are.

As long as the boy can find him first.

All of the sudden, an idea occurs to him. He holds his breath once more, and looks _behind_ the tent. Sure enough, curled up on an embroidered pillow, the golden-haired boy is asleep. The boy sneaks closer to get a better look. The Frankish boy is about his size, perhaps taller, with a more graceful frame. He wears a dress-like garment that drapes elegantly across his body. His blonde hair, longer and wavier than the boy's own, splays about his face, catching the early morning sunlight. His features are more delicate than the boy's, and he is milky pale, perhaps from staying out all night. The boy wonders why he is not in the tent, and realizes with a start that perhaps this boy likes to watch the stars just as he does.

Suddenly, the Frankish boy comes to life, grabbing the boy and pulling him down next to him on the pillow, until they face each other, noses inches apart.

"What are you doing here?" the Frankish boy whispers.

The boy jumps up with an indignant cry. "I thought you were asleep!"

"Shhh!" the Frankish boy says with a high, melodic laugh, "I don't think you want to wake anyone else!"

The boy hops back a step, and points his knife at the other, giggling boy. This doesn't dampen his spirits, but makes him laugh more in delight.

"Come now, put that down. I won't hurt you. I'm sorry if I offended you yesterday, I only wanted to talk. I didn't realize he," the Frankish boy jerks his head towards the tent, "was going to attack you." He wrinkles his nose. "I don't much like fighting." Then, laughs again. "But I suppose you do, hmm?"

The Frankish boy's laugh is confusing him, making him relax and tense at the same time. "No. Not much. But I want my people back."

"Oh, is that all? All right."

The boy is shocked by his easy acquiescence, but decides to move quickly while this good humour lasts. "Okay. Let's go, then."

The Frankish boy extended a hand, gripping his arm. His pale, unblemished skin looks strange against the rough fabric of the boy's cloak. "Wait, wait! We don't have to go just yet. Stay and talk with me for a while. Then we'll go let out your people."

The boy stares at him impatiently.

"At least tell me your name," the Frankish boy says with a sweet smile. Then, examines him more closely. "Or why you have the ears of a rabbit? I don't think I noticed that yesterday."

The boy chooses not to answer the second question. "I don't have a name. Do you?"

The Frankish boy blinks in surprise. "You don't have a name?"

"I haven't found one yet. What's yours?"

The Frankish boy frowns slightly in frustration, but jumps lightly to his feet and gives a graceful bow.

"My name is Francia. My people are the Franks, and there is no separation between them and I."

The boy gasps. "That's me! I mean, I'm like that as well."

"So how is it that you don't have a name?"

"I don't know. I suppose I haven't been given one yet. My people are the Angles. That's the only name I know."

"I'll have to call you Angles, then." When Francia says Angles, the word seems softer, but also mangled at the end. "I wouldn't know how to talk to someone without a name."

"Please, Francia. Can we go now? Your soldiers will be waking any minute."

Francia scans the horizon, and nods in assent. "Very true. Let's go."

With a determined stride, Francia sets off towards the edge of the camp. The boy has to jog to keep up with his longer steps. When they reach the edge of the forest, the boy huffs in frustration. "I've already checked here."

"Ah, but you did not have what I have!" From a fold in his robe, Francia produces a small amulet on a chain. Much to his amazement, the boy notices that the emerald stone in the center of the amulet is glowing faintly.

"This," Francia says with grandeur, "is _magical._"

The boy stares in wonder. "Magic? Are _you_ magical, then?" He doesn't allow Francia to answer, instead blurting out, "Can you see the fairies? Can I meet some?"

Francia wrinkles his nose. "I am _not_magical. The King has a man who casts magical spells, and the bishop doesn't like it. I don't think I like it either. I watched him cast this one, and..." he shudders.

"But can you see fairies?"

Francia smiles, bemused. "I do not know what a fairy is."

The boy gives up with a discouraged sigh, refocusing on the task at hand. "So my people are hidden by magic? That's why I couldn't find them?"

"That's right. But this," Francia holds out the amulet, away from him, "will guide us to them."

Seeing the worried pucker on Francia's brow, the boy carefully takes the amulet from him. "I'll carry it."

After a few minutes, they find that the stone becomes brighter when moving towards a certain direction. They follow its path through the early-morning woods, trying to peer through the mist rising from decaying flora from the forest floor and the newly settled dew. The birds are fully awake now and beginning the morning chorus.

"My soldiers should be awake by now," Francia comments.

"Let's hurry then."

Eventually, the mist, which had been ebbing, now thickens and becomes opaque. They have to use their hands to clear it away, and the boy feels as if he is wading in a fast-moving stream trying to wash him back.

"Not far now!" Francia calls to him, then coughs. The moisture in the air is still nearly liquid.

The boy keeps wading, nearly blind because of the poor visibility, and deaf from the absorbent effect the enchanted fog has on sound. He turns once to call out to Francia, and receives no response.

Is he alone? There is no way to know. Not even the rabbits can make it through here.

He feels a shaky, reckless panic start to well up in him, but clenches his fists and chokes it down. He has the amulet, and his people are not far away. It was due to him that they are imprisoned, and he will free them. Once that is finished, he will come back and look for Francia. The boy shudders, and continues forward.

A clammy, silent eternity later, he runs headlong into a thick web of vines. He recoils in surprise, right into Francia who emerges from the fog behind him. He whirls around and grips Francia's robe, comforted by the corporeal presence of someone solid.

"You! Where have you been?"

Francia pats his head lightly, which makes him step back in annoyance. "I could ask the same of you."

"It must have been the fog," the boy says shortly, embarrassed.

Francia's eyes widen. "Look at the amulet!"

The amulet is glowing an intense green, and shooting small laser-like beams from its center. "We can't be far now."

The two boys sidle along the vines, guided completely by touch. They quickly find that the structure is rounded, like a circular fence. The boy pounds a fist on it, and also tries his knife, but it remains as impenetrable as rock.

"What now?"

Francia warily beckons for the amulet, which the boy hands to him. Francia turns it over in his palm, as if looking for instructions. When he touches the stone in the center, however, he yelps and starts sucking on his finger. "It's _hot._"

The boy carefully takes back the amulet, and examines the stone. Experimentally, he touches the stone to a leaf on a vine. The leaf instantly bursts into flame, and the fire spreads quickly. The boys back up, nervous of the flames but too afraid of the enchanted fog to risk being lost again. The whole structure begins to give off great plumes of smoke, and the boys cover their faces. The boy begins to cough when the smoke easily breaches the rough fabric of his cloak, and Francia gathers the boy to himself, and presses his own silk sleeve across his nose and mouth. When the last of the vines have burnt away and the smoke has dissipated, they dazedly separate.

The boy coughs once more to clear his lungs. "Thank you."

"Look," says Francia, eyes wide.

A new outpouring of fog comes from the area that the vines had just enclosed. Inside, the Angles sit as if in a trance, staring off into the air with vacant looks. At the head of the people sits the chief, just as still as the rest.

"Hengest!" the boy shrieks, running to him and throwing himself into the chief's limp arms and crying, "Oh please, Hengest, come back, wake up, I promise I'll never leave you again!"

For a horrifying moment, he is completely still. Then, slowly, his arms come up to embrace the sobbing boy. "Why, it's you!" he rumbled, both pleased and surprised. "And with the ears of a coney!"

"Yes, it's me," the boy cries into his shoulder and the chief slowly stands and holds him. "And I'm so, so sorry, Hengest, I'm so sorry..."

"Hush, now, it's all right. Blame does not fall on you for other's unwise actions." The vacant look in the cheif's eyes slowly leaves him as the enchantment wears off. He looks around to his people in bewildered concern. "But by the gods, this is an odd turn of events. What has happened?"

The boy raises his head, and looked out over the small band of Angles. "They're under a spell. Oh Hengest, we have to leave, quickly. It's after dawn, and the Franks will be after us any minute."

"How can we break the spell?"

The boy shifts, and the chief set him down. Slowly, he approaches Alodia first, and touches her shoulder. After a second, her breathing seemes to increase, and life comes back to her eyes.

"Little one! Thank the gods you are safe!" She reaches out to embrace him, but he gently refuses her, just stopping long enough to plant a kiss on her cheek before moving to the next family and waking each of them in turn. In a few minutes, the entire tribe is awake and alert. When he returns to the chief and his wife, Hengest regards him with new-found amazement.

"It seems we have only begun to figure out who you are, little one."

In response, the boy only stretches out his arms, asking to be held. The chief lifts him into his strong grasp, and the boy relaxes against his chest, gratefully shedding the toughened, anxious attitude he had adopted ever since the nightmarish chase in the forest, and feeling the tightness in his chest loosen as the Angles shakes off the last of the Franks' spells. He is comforted by the feeling of unity born of the complete, un-enchanted assembly of the tribe around him, and is blissfully unaware of the fearful counsels of the elder men and women around him. Eventually, however, he is gently shaken out of his reverie by Hengest.

"Little one, come back to us. We need you..." A reassuring hand strokes down his back. He opens his eyes.

"From which way did you come? We need to continue plotting our course for Albion."

Albion. Home.

The journey is not over yet.

The boy raises his head, and sees Francia standing timidly at the edge of the clearing. He is set down again, and beckons for Francia to come forward.

"He can guide us where we need to go. These are his lands." As he says it, the boy realized that Francia has never actually said this, but with a deep sense of certainty and a nod of assent from Francia, he is sure of it.

Hengest eyes Francia incredulously. "Isn't this the Frankish prince?"

"If you please, sir," Francia says demurely, "my name is Francia. I am no prince, and yet much more than prince to my people. I spring from them, as a lily does from its roots, and we do not go separately."

Again, as Francia speaks, the boy feels an immediate understanding and recognition of his situation mirrored in the boy's own. He envies Francia's eloquence; he is certain that he cannot express such strange and complex things with such ease.

The chief is silent for a long moment. "If this is true, why is it that you are so willing to aid us, your prisoners?"

Francia raises his head, and looks directly into Hengest's eyes. "I stand for my people, but my King acts alone. It is my duty and pleasure to submit to his governance, but even a King is wrong sometimes."

Hengest looks back at the tall, willowy boy, and a smile slowly peeks out from under his beard. "Very well, Francia. You will show us the way to the point of the White Cliffs, then?"

"I will go with you as far as I am able. I do have to go back sometime, you know, and I haven't yet had breakfast."

* * *

The boy tries to be hospitable, offering Francia all kinds of nice treats, but the Frankish boy turns most of them down, even turning slightly green when offered what the boy considers to be choice selections from a preserved sheep.

"I appreciate the effort, but I think I'll just wait for dinner."

"More for me then!"

But the boy is exhausted by the events of the last two days, and instead of eating, spends most of the rest of the morning asleep in Alodia's arms or on one of the men's backs. During one of the rare times he awakes, Francia offers to carry him, but the men laugh at his barely-taller-than stature, and the boy glares, so it is not suggested again. Francia spends the time at the head of the tribe, explaining the lay of his land to the tribal elders and telling them about his people. They reach the coastline after an hour's journey, and the boy is set down against a pile of blankets as the adults begin to make preparations on the rocky beach for the water crossing. Francia comes to wake him.

"Hey, look! The white cliffs are visible!"

The boy sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. Across the wide channel, a shining white landmass can indeed be seen. The boy's mouth falls open. "Are those cliffs? They're-they're-"

"Amazing, aren't they? There is grass and land on top, and then it drops straight down and into the sea. The white we're seeing is rock, the side of the isle."

The boy turns to him, eyes shining. "Albion is going to be my home, Francia. We'll finally stop traveling and live somewhere. And it's beautiful there, I just know it! And I'll learn all kinds of things, and see fairies too!"

Francia smiles at him. "That sounds wonderful. Do you think you'll find your name?"

This brings the boy up short, but his faith in his new home is unshakable.

"Certainly."

"May I ask you something?"

The boy nods his assent.

Francia holds his gaze. "Once you find your name, come back and see me."

"I-"

"I have lots to tell you, and teach you about too! You're not Christian at all, and I don't think you know how to write. And we could compose songs, and share stories, and watch the stars, and go on adventures, and have magnificent times! We could be friends, you know, and Clovis, my King, will come around eventually, and then our people can be allies! I don't have many good friends yet, since I'm still so young, but so are you! Oh do come back and don't forget about me!"

The boy considers this, and smiles slowly. "I will, Francia. I won't forget you at all!"

Francia lights up with a radiant smile, and darts closer to him to brush his cheek with a kiss. The boy nearly falls over backwards in shock, but Francia is already up and away, loping gracefully back towards the woods, and calling goodbyes over his shoulder, hair flying out behind him.

"Until next time, lovely Angles!"

The boy sits, glowering, until Alodia scoops him up with a laugh. "Sorry to see your friend gone so soon?"

The boy grumbles to himself, confused. There was _nobody_ like Francia, of that he was certain.

"What's the matter, love? Most of us seem rather taken with him." She points out a group of young girls giggling among themselves. "He was very popular with the womenfolk."

Somehow, that doesn't surprise him. "He aggravates me. I never know what he's going to do next."

Alodia laughs again. "It's all right to miss him, little one. But I'm sure you'll see him again soon."

The boy throws a last glace over his shoulder before turning to face the White Cliffs. "Soon."

* * *

**A/N:** More history! I think I'll just go in the order that things pop up in the story.

The Franks-A Germanic tribe that occupied parts of modern day France, and their land was referred to as "Francia" (also where modern-day France gets its name). This story is set approx. 450-470 AD, so the Gauls (as a people) are long gone by now. The Roman empire was in steep decline, so soldiers from non-essential parts of the empire were being recalled to Rome, often chased out by local inhabitants that had been oppressed by the Romans. The dress/hair styles of the Franks are accurate as well. They are speaking latin because it was considered the "universal language" of the time, but most of the Angles don't know it because the Romans never permanently took over Jutland (peninsula of the modern-day country Denmark and also parts of modern-day Germany) as part of the empire. Little England is a budding Nation, and therefore, in my headcannon, can comminucate with all people.

Hengest-a real historical figure in early Anglo-Saxon history. He is mentioned in "The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle," a historic document recorded in the time of Alfred the Great (800s AD).

Clovis I-The first king of the Franks to unite all the tribes under one kingdom. Also the first Catholic king of the Franks (he converted halfway through his reign, but still held on to some of the old superstitions, making the local clergy angry). He is considered the founder of the Merovingian dynasty which ruled the Franks until 752 AD.

The White Cliffs-Referring to the Cliffs of Dover. In those times, the name Albion may have come from the white cliffs that were visible from the European mainland.

Coney-an old English word for rabbit, still used sometimes today in Britain. Oddly enough, it was originally derived from Latin.

On another note, I see this story getting lots of hits. We all have the view counter! Please don't read and run. I'd like to know what you think. R&R.


End file.
